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A few lines of nonsense were scribbled across the slip.

Something encoded. Too much for his tired brain.

He had to get it to headquarters. He flipped the page over.

There was a map. Crudely drawn. Surely the map was for the spy’s sake, not Boney’s.

It showed the River Sambre and a trail or road from French Avesnes to Belgian Charleroi that cut right through Beaumont, with a few landmarks and villages marked along the way.

Villages that were likely to welcome the French invaders? Or something else?

He closed his eyes to see again Colquhoun’s maps.

Charleroi was a long day’s march nearly due south of Brussels.

The road to Charleroi indicated on the spy’s map threaded the needle between the British and Prussian armies.

Divide and conquer. And Napoleon was coming into Belgium through Beaumont, not Mons.

Crispin smiled. He had Colquhoun’s proof.

Now he only needed to find out where the devil was.

He left the cowshed and followed the river another two hours toward Thuin, thinking himself now roughly halfway between Beaumont and Charleroi.

Just outside the town, exhausted, he bought himself a bed in a brothel, always a good place to hide, and paid the girl extra to leave him alone.

He woke just before dawn to the rumbling sound of a very large army on the march.

He didn’t see it, but he heard it well enough.

He now knew where Napoleon was. Unfortunately, the general was here .

*

Camellia was not prepared for the rain of troubles.

Neville had had a chronic cough. They were all used to that.

But sometime in early June, it intensified.

She didn’t pay much attention at first. She had been more worried about Manfred.

His tremors were worsening. He had trouble swallowing.

And he’d fallen twice. Twice that she’d witnessed. She suspected he’d fallen more.

And then, Manfred’s man of business, who had untaken the task of unraveling the Harringtons’ finances, had announced that they were in even worse disarray than she’d thought.

Neville had debts that outstripped those of their father.

Apologetically, Manfred said there was no choice but to sell Neville’s farm.

She told herself it didn’t matter. Neville would never return to it.

Moreover, she had her own concerns. She was now quite obviously with child.

The baby would be born in another two months, but she was trying to pretend it would be four.

She suspected the servants were whispering behind her back, but she didn’t care, so long as they assumed her indiscretion had been with Manfred.

There was also Brussels to worry about. It was assumed Napoleon would march on Belgium, but no one knew when.

And in the meantime, the news from Brussels read like the gossip pages at the height of the London Season.

It was all parties and balls, and which lovely lady the Duke of Wellington was paying too much attention to.

She couldn’t help wondering how Major Taverston was faring, if he had found a lovely young Belgian girl to pay attention to.

Of course, she shouldn’t care. She didn’t care.

But Neville? One week earlier, she had been with her brother in the sitting room when he had a coughing fit that seemed to go on forever. It left him exhausted. That was when she finally took note. Manfred sent for a doctor, who diagnosed an inflammation of the lungs.

They’d put him to bed. She sat with him throughout the next few days, exchanging herbal tisanes for tea and giving him more laudanum than usual on the doctor’s instructions. She would have stayed with him through the night also, but Manfred insisted she sleep for the baby’s sake.

Two days ago, Neville had had a burst of lucidity that made her think he was mending. She had just adjusted the drapes to keep the sunshine from falling across his bed and waking him, when he came out with, “Camellia, I hope to see your baby born.”

Startled, she’d replied, “Of course, you will. It won’t be long now.”

“A son would be best.”

She laughed lightly, returning to her chair by his side. “I’m afraid I can’t guarantee a boy.” She expected him to laugh too, but he looked pensive. So she said, “If this one is not, the next may be.”

“I suppose.” He flushed and looked toward the wall. Obviously, he was aware of Manfred’s infirmities, yet he couldn’t possibly know that they had never lain together. He was still looking away from her when he asked, “Has he told you anything about his cousin?”

Camellia hesitated. Manfred was very closed mouthed about him, but she was curious. “He says the man is evil. He does not want the estate to go to him.”

Her brother was quiet for long enough that Camellia thought he might have drifted back to sleep. Then he said, “They were always rivals, from what I recall. But the rivalry did not become hatred until they both began courting Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth?”

“The first Lady Bodwell.”

“Oh! You knew her?” Camellia’s curiosity flared.

“Not well. I was rarely ever home. But I do know she was very pretty. Vivacious. She had a number of suitors but Manfred won her.”

It was difficult for her to picture Manfred courting. “The cousin did not take it well?”

“He lured her into his carriage and assaulted her. The week before the wedding.”

Camellia gasped.

“Of course, he denied that it was an assault. Never mind that. His intention was not to force her to wed him instead of Manfred. It was only to deprive them of their happiness.”

“But Manfred did marry her.”

“Yes. But I think his cousin succeeded nevertheless. I don’t think Elizabeth was ever truly happy afterward.

” Neville began coughing again and could not catch his breath for a frightening few minutes.

He took the cup Camellia offered him. Another tisane.

After clearing his throat several times, he said, “She became a recluse. Manfred told me she could not get past the fear that people were talking about her.” He shook his head. “And here I am, talking about her.”

“It wasn’t her fault. What he did was not her fault.” She cringed to think of her own situation which was her fault. And Manfred was sheltering her, too.

Neville drew a rattling breath. “Let us hope this baby is a son. Manfred deserves some peace of mind.”

That was the last true conversation Camellia had with her brother. Over the next two days he began wheezing as well as coughing. His breathing grew labored. He woke only to groan and gasp, then stopped waking at all.

And that morning, Thursday, June 15, he died in the early hours while she was sleeping. Neville was gone. And Camilla was mourning another person she’d loved.